


Garpike

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, Gen, WTF, merfolk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4110682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock counsels his prince against keeping an oxygen-breather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Garpike

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for clockwork-knight’s “But look how cute he is. We could call him Bones!” prompt on the one-sentence meme on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“But look how cute he is. We could call him Bones!”

Spock almost releases a sigh. The Vulcan tribes don’t typically show such emotional responses, but his time by the crowned prince’s side has begun to alter his habits. The capital is too full of iron-bloods for his copper half to stay complete. He controls himself, summons calmness, and insists, “He is Unknown Specimen Designation One Thousand and Seventy One. Assigning further names will only encourage attachment.”

“I’m already attached,” Prince James insists. Indeed, he’s been beside the tank since their military first brought the creature in. They managed to clear one of the laboratory rooms for him, drain it of water—for it seems this strange creature, while similar in appearance and certain biological configurations to Jim’s tribe, breathes oxygen. He now paces the inner circle of his bowl with an irritated affectation. He walks on two legs like some of the surface creatures and wears black material that covers his legs and blue material that covers his top half, with a hole cut out for his head. His brown hair is still wet from their waters. It’s cropped somewhere between Jim’s and Spock’s length. All of that donates intelligence, which Spock’s studies have confirmed. 

All the same, he reminds his prince, “Despite his inability to telepathically communicate, all tests indicate that he is sentient.”

“Then how come he jumped into the ocean when he clearly can’t survive in it?” Jim snorts, amusement painting his fair features. His golden tail’s curled languidly beneath him, the fine yellow fins at the end nearly immobile. For once, they’ve discovered something that Jim finds more fascinating than his science advisor.

Spock’s blue tail is coiled, ready to take him across the room to check their instruments again—he can present Jim the proof, if need be, that this strange creature they’ve captured is nothing like a pet. He tries to reason, “Perhaps he fell out of an alien poacher’s boat. It would not be the first time the inhabitants of a drier world attempted to harvest our oceans. However, given that none have yet lingered long enough to show on our sensors, it is safe to assume none have come back for him, and therefore he is lucky we caught him when we did.” 

“He looks like a grumpy skeleton,” Jim says out of nowhere, as he’s so prone to doing. He reaches forward and raps against the glass with his pink-tinted knuckles. The alien inside looks sharply up at him and scowls. Their facial structures are remarkably similar, even down to the rounded ears of Jim’s tribe. This one appears older, however, and he spills out another litany of nonsensical noises that Spock’s instruments have yet to interpret. He’s considered the possibility that it’s some kind of rudimentary language, although even the more primitive, non-telepathic land species of their world have figured out that gestural communication is far more effective, particularly across barriers. But all species aren’t necessarily logical. Then he marches forward on his thin leg spindles and points up. Both Spock and Jim glance up, but there’s nothing there beyond the grey ceiling. 

“What do you think he’s trying to say?” Jim asks, looking genuinely curious. 

Spock concludes, “Perhaps that he is, indeed, from above—space, so to speak, although without further evidence I cannot make a completely accurate analysis.”

Jim finally looks at him, grinning, and a wave of warmth comes across their bond as his mind sends directly to Spock’s, “Your worst guess is usually better than all my other advisors’ facts combined.”

“Inaccurate,” Spock concedes, carefully keeping his own mind neutral, “But I appreciate the intended sentiment.” Jim grins all the wider and, thankfully, refrains from teasing Spock about the word ‘sentiment’ coming out of him. 

Looking back to the tank, Jim tilts his head slow enough for his yellow-brown hair to waft attractively around him, and he muses, “He rattles like an old skeleton, too. There must be something we can do to cheer him up.”

“Perhaps he is grumpy because he thinks he has been kidnapped by aliens,” Spock hypothesizes.

Jim waves a hand. “We’re taking good care of him. Besides, once we do find a way to communicate, it shouldn’t be that difficult—his bottom half’s weird, but the rest isn’t that different from my people.”

Well intentioned. But Spock softly comments, “You and I are proof enough that similar race has little bearing on a relationship.” Jim softens right back, turning a sad, warm smile to his closest friend. The next wave that flows through their bond isn’t exactly words, but the sort of raw emotion that Spock would never accept from another soul. Only his prince, his Jim.

He reciprocates what he can and is firm in the rest. Jim blows bubbles in front of his face in tension’s release and murmurs, “We can’t keep him.”

In confirmation, Spock repeats, “We cannot keep him.”

Splaying a hand against the glass partition, Jim sends to no one in particular, “Don’t worry, Bones. We’ll get you safely back home.” The creature doesn’t look like he received the message.

Spock says, “You made the right choice, my prince.” Jim nods, but it’s clear he’ll miss the strange alien when it’s gone.

Then Jim abruptly swims across the room to the Synthesizer affixed to the wall, calling, “Come on. Let’s figure out what Unknown Specimen Designation One Thousand and Seventy One likes to eat.”


End file.
